


diagnosis: mythical

by stilinski



Series: Silly Shorts (Tumblr Ficlets) [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crack, Discussions of sex, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fade to Black, Fluff, Frottage, Future Fic, Insecure Derek, M/M, Relationship Discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 11:45:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4220451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilinski/pseuds/stilinski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ll tell you I’m satisfied with my care every time we have sex, and you’ll pack yourself into the tiniest box you can find.”</p>
<p>“What.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	diagnosis: mythical

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to [Tumblr](http://obroech.tumblr.com/post/121537607851). Posted here by bizarrely popular demand.
> 
> I still have no idea why there are Big Hero 6 references in it, and I have no excuse as to why I added an extra one when I edited this to post it here.
> 
> **Additionally: I do not give my consent for my work to be shared on GoodReads, or any other site with a similar objective. Ever. No exceptions.**

“Are you satisfied?”

Stiles jumps and looks up from where he's curled on the couch with a huge mug of coffee, poring over his most recent acquisition from Deaton. The distraction Derek brings is actually kind of welcome: the entire tome is in Latin as far as he can tell, which is proving more than a little vexing - Lydia's out of town for a few weeks and not to be disturbed.

“Sure, Baymax,” Stiles says slowly, eyes tracking Derek as he slumps down onto the armchair across the coffee table from him, legs splaying out as he frowns at some unseen problem.

Derek gives him a look like he knows there’s a reference he’s missing but he’s not about to deign to ask for an explanation. “Sexually, I mean.”

Attention officially grabbed, Stiles closes the book and sits up properly, cocking his head to one side. “Short of a succubus getting involved and both of us quitting our jobs, I’m not sure it’s possible we could have _more_ sex, dude,” he says, and then a finger of cold dread slides down his neck. “Are _you_?”

“What? Yes, I’m fine,” Derek says distractedly, waving the question away like a bothersome fly. “We have a lot of sex, but we’ve been seeing one another for a year and-–I mean, is there anything you want?”

Stiles stares at him, entirely nonplussed, and biting back the knee-jerk sarcastic response because Derek's shifting impatiently in his chair, bothered by something and apparently not feeling secure enough about it to tell him outright.

“You’re allowed to say we’re dating,” Stiles says, trying to guess what's going on in that beautiful, scowly head. “We’re not seeing each other - we’re in a completely committed, monogamous, I’m-ass-over-tea-kettle-for-you relationship. We’re dating.”

No reaction; that’s not what’s bothering him.

He tries again. “Derek,” he says gently, attracting Derek’s gaze from boring a hole in the wall behind Stiles’ head. “You’ve had your tongue in my ass - if there was something I felt like I was missing, I’m pretty sure I’d tell you about it. What’s going on?”

Derek slumps further and pinches the bridge of his nose - as body language goes, that’s pretty much a glaring neon sign for Derek being annoyed with himself. “It’s stupid,” he says, looking down at his lap with a faint frown. “It’s nothing, sorry. I just wanted to make sure.”

Abruptly, he gets to his feet and all but marches away in the direction of their bedroom. Stiles narrows his eyes at the empty armchair, and then hauls ass to follow him, abandoning his book and his coffee on the table.

“Der, talk to me,” he says to Derek’s tattoo as he yanks his v-neck over his head and, after visibly casting around for something to do with his hands, changes into a different v-neck of a slightly different colour - a sure sign of agitation, though Derek’s expression is studiously blank when he turns around, fumbling with his belt and fly without taking his shoes off first.

Stiles prowls closer and gives Derek's chest a gentle shove so that he's forced to sit down, and then climbs astride him.

Something in the set of his shoulders melts at Stiles’ touch and his face loses some of its tension; Derek's hands fly up, seemingly by reflex, to curl around Stiles' hips. Secure in the knowledge that Derek isn’t going to get up and walk away from him again - because he can, and has in the past - Stiles lets his fingers roam through his hair, along his shoulders, tracing the lines of his face until Derek lets out a long, slow sigh.

“What’s this all about?” he says, keeping his tone light. “You know the quickest way to get me to go away is to talk to me.”

Derek sighs again, heavily, and leans back on his elbows, prompting Stiles to settle a little more comfortably on his hips. “There are a load of people at work and they were all talking about not being satisfied by their partners,” he says, eyes focused somewhere on Stiles’ chest rather than his face. “It was just kind of-–it was _all_ of them, just complaining. None of them were claiming to be having any good sex, talking about it like it doesn’t exist, like it's some kind of _myth_.”

Stiles grins and leans down, planting his hands on the bed so that he can steal a kiss and bump their noses together. “ _Werewolves_ are some kind of myth,” he points out, sitting back to work Derek’s unbuckled belt free of his jeans. “So I’m going to continue having mythical sex with my mythical boyfriend, and if I ever have a problem that results in that sex not being so mythical and wonderful anymore, rest assured that I’ll tell my wonderful, mythical boyfriend all about it.”

Derek stares up at him, expression caught between bemusement and affection. Stiles nudges the hem of Derek’s shirt upward and Derek obligingly wriggles free of it, otherwise remaining still and allowing Stiles to shuffle around to rid him of his jeans, socks and shoes, having to stand up to do so.

He pauses, taking in the sight of Derek sprawled out in front of him, _for_ him, idly folding Derek’s jeans and placing them to one side to give him more time to ogle.

“Stiles,” Derek says, voice very nearly a whine. His eyelids are heavy, but Stiles can see his pupils are threatening to swallow up his irises.

“Hm? Sorry, I’m too busy being smug about how _satisfied_ I’m about to be,” he says, tugging his own clothes off with considerably less regard for where they end up. “Want me to write you a note? You can take it into work and show off about how great your sex life is. Hey, you could make a video - want to make a sex tape? We haven’t done that, yet.”

Derek lunges up, grabbing him around the waist and dragging him down onto the bed, rolling over so that Stiles is caged under his body. “No sex tape,” he says, but he’s smiling again so Stiles counts it as a win, hand sneaking down under the front of the waistband of Derek’s boxers, while the other wraps around the back of his neck to pull him into a kiss.

“I have an idea for role playing if you’re looking to change things up and ensure my satisfaction,” Stiles says thoughtfully when they break for air because breathing’s fast becoming something necessary and Derek's actively beginning to grind their hips together so they have to kick off their underwear. “I’ll tell you I’m satisfied with my care every time we have sex, and you’ll pack yourself into the tiniest box you can find.”

That gives Derek pause, freezing in the act of curling his hand around their dicks now they’re both naked and pressed against one another. “What.”

“We could fist bump after each particularly spectacular orgasm,” Stiles suggests, expression completely serious except for the mirthful gleam in his eyes.

Derek rolls his eyes and kisses him, cutting off any explanation Stiles might have been about to attempt. Probably because he knows Stiles well enough that if Stiles gets distracted now, there are no orgasms, spectacular or otherwise, in anyone’s immediate future. He does the only thing he can do and continues kissing him, pressing their bodies together more firmly and nipping at his lip when he tries to talk anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Tumblr](http://obroech.tumblr.com/) \-- come say hi!


End file.
